


Beautiful

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: He was, she thought, the most beautiful man she had ever seen: William Holmes, a graduate student in his last months at their university and assigned, apparently much against his will, to work as a teacher’s assistant in Molly’s mid-level organic chemistry class...A prequel to theAftermath series, and written for the Day one prompt,Teen!lock / Uni!lock / Early Friendship.





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for Brit-picking and suggestions!
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He was, she thought, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Well, _boy_. Or _young_ man, she supposed. William Holmes, a graduate student in his last months at their university and assigned, apparently much against his will, to work as a teacher’s assistant in Molly’s mid-level organic chemistry class. 

Most of the class consisted of students in their third year of pre-clinical studies, but Molly was only in her first and had been allowed to skip ahead in this particular area, having proven herself in an elite symposium the previous summer, straight from completing her grammar school career and A levels with top marks in both biology and chemistry. It _was_ a bit extraordinary, and she believed it was this circumstance that had brought her to William’s attention. 

Or she hoped that was it, and not the fact that she barely looked old enough to be attending university at all, much less such an advanced class. 

She had to admit, his initial reaction to her presence had not been entirely positive. In fact, the first time he’d really looked at her he’d had the oddest expression on his face, rather as though she were some insect sitting atop his order of chips: horrified fascination coupled with a strong desire to flick her away without more ado. But after some weeks, during which she had shown she was not only capable of doing the work, but of excelling, he had at least seemed willing to concede her right to be there. 

And now, months later, he merely ignored her. Which was fine, since it gave her more opportunity to look at _him_. 

He _was_ beautiful. Handsome, but in an oddly different, almost _unearthly_ way. Quite tall and almost too thin, but with a grace and hinted musculature that spoke of the accomplished athlete. Not team sports: the narrowed eyes and curled lip he displayed at the mere sight of two of her fellow organic chem students, star rugby players Glen Harrison and Colin Whitcomb, told her that much. William Holmes was rumored to have been one of the more valued members of the track and field program at one time, and she knew he boxed (dreadful sport, once he’d come in with a split lip and a plaster adorning an elegant cheekbone, and had given a wry, rather crooked grin at her gasp of horror), and he fenced as well -- she had heard Glen and Colin jeering about the latter… 

 _Thinks he’s in one of those bodice-ripper novels, or all set to slay a dragon!_  

This remark had the opposite effect to that they’d presumably intended, for from that day Molly had been afflicted with a vivid, ongoing fantasy in which William Holmes was, indeed, a hero straight from a romance and she was the most appreciative heroine. She had the wit not to indulge in these daydreams too often -- she was a sensible girl, and had _goals_. Plans for the future. But when she was tired, or feeling low, or overwhelmed, she sometimes allowed herself to contemplate the delicious (and often embarrassingly explicit) scenarios that seemed to rise unbidden from her hormone-addled brain. 

Hormones could certainly do strange things to one -- particularly with the person of William Holmes regularly on hand to provide inspiration.

 

*

 

“Meena, you know I hate this sort of party. I won’t know _anyone!_ ” Molly complained as they crossed the street toward the house where said party was going forward, full-blast. 

“Bollocks. You know _me!_ ” Meena retorted, and grabbing Molly’s wrist, she virtually dragged her along to join the throng of students queuing to enter. 

It was an old Victorian mansion, a private dwelling, located perhaps a mile from campus, but the upkeep was no doubt horrific and as a result, the couple who owned it occupied only one wing, the remaining rooms being let to older university students. It was not at all notorious as a party venue, though that might change after this night’s doings. The owners had flown off to the U.S. to attend the graduation of their son from some American university and they had foolishly left the running of the house to a couple of their tenants, one of whom was a most enterprising economics major. He was actually selling tickets to this illicit blowout, and was obviously doing very well for himself, Molly thought, as she and Meena finally got in the door and shouldered their way through the throng, deafened by music that precluded any chance of real conversation. 

“Come on!” shouted Meena. “Tracy and Steve are over by the bar.” 

They entered a big room that ordinarily might have served as a quiet common area for the house, but was now heavily populated with noisy drinkers. They were served from an enormous makeshift bar that had been set up across one end of the room and stocked with libations of all sorts. Meena whistled and waved to a small group of boys and girls gathered at one end of the bar, and contrary to her expectation. Molly recognized several of them, including Tracy and Steve, who, lacking much sense, could be expected to be among the most riotous guests. Molly also noticed one other familiar face: Glen Harrison was one of a knot of fellow rugby players, all of them well on their way to being completely pissed, and unfortunately he happened to look up just as Molly and Meena were passing by. Molly looked quickly away, but not before she saw his sloppy grin and rising brows. 

Bloody hell, she thought, feeling annoyed with Glen, Meena, and most of all herself. She should have stood firm and refused to come -- but then Meena would have had a days-long sulk and Molly would have felt guilty and cowardly, both. 

Perhaps she could escape before long. She’d have a drink with Meena, then make some excuse and take her leave… 

“Molly!” came Glen’s familiar and unwanted voice. 

Molly turned and pasted on a smile. “Glen! Thought I saw you over there. Having fun?” 

“Yeah, but you need a drink!” 

Molly winced as Glen shoved his way to the bar to order, not bothering with such niceties as _Excuse me!_ or _What would you like, Molly?_  

“We need a G&T over here, stat!” Glen demanded. 

Molly sighed. She would have preferred a cider. And a _Please_ to the bartender might have been nice _._

 

*

 

Glen Harrison wanted to show her his etchings. 

“Seriously, Molly, one of the blokes who lives here’s an art history major and his room’s great, loads of interesting stuff -- you’ll love it!” 

“Thanks but no,” Molly said, shaking her head -- which was a mistake, that G&T had been far too strong, too much, and she was actually feeling the slightest bit queasy, light-headed… just a trifle pissed herself. She began to giggle, thinking how Mum would approve of her being such a cheap date -- showed her inexperience with such matters, certainly. 

Well, at least she knew not to trust a reptile like Glen farther than she could throw him. 

However, two things then occurred. 

First, Glen said, “C’mon, Molly, you’ll like it. And I think you need to sit down for a bit, out of this noise, don’t you?” This consideration seemed… _nice…_ if out of character, and she peered at him (a trifle blearily), really looked for the first time that evening. He was smiling… friendly. He did seem sincere. And he was very fit, if a bit on the beefy side. 

When Molly replied, “Well, yes. Maybe just for a few minutes,” and Glen chirped, “Good girl!” and grinned and put his arm around her to lead her away, the second thing happened. She caught sight of something… someone… out of the corner of her eye… someone _beautiful_ … 

She frowned and tried to turn to see, and just caught the straight set of a slender back, a ruffle of dark curls… and then a glimpse of profile as the dark head bent to hear what some other girl was saying. The girl was laughing… 

But then Molly lost sight of him, her insistent escort leading her away and up the wide, ornate staircase.

 

*

 

It was somewhat quieter upstairs, and quieter still as Glen led her confidently down the hallway to the room he wanted to show her. They weren’t quite alone, other couples seemed to be taking advantage of the less raucous atmosphere and relative privacy afforded by various alcoves as well as the bedrooms, though certainly not to look at art. 

“This is it,” Glen said, opening the door of a room near the end of the passage, charming indeed, with pictures of all sorts covering the walls, just as he’d averred, and featuring a round study alcove, part of one of house’s several towers. There was also a big brass-framed bed situated against the wall, and it was toward this that Glen led her. 

She tried to tug her hand away, dig in her heels. “Wait, we’re here to look at the art!” 

“Hell with the art,” Glen said with a leer, though he did stop -- but only to pull her into a rough embrace. 

“Stop it!” she protested, but then could say no more beneath a shockingly horrid, beery kiss. 

She struggled, shoving against him, but that only made him laugh. 

He loosened his hold just enough to say, “C’mon, Molly, I know you’re up for it. I’ve seen the way you look at me.” 

“I do _not!_ ” she exclaimed, outraged, but then gave a little shriek as he tipped them toward the bed where they landed with a bounce in an inelegant heap. “ _What are you doing?_ ” Angrily, she tried to knee him where it would do the most good, but he foiled her efforts with ease and rolled on top of her. “No! _Glen_ \--” 

But her strained attempt at a scream was stopped by another messy kiss, and his weight, and the strength of him were terrifying. She squirmed frantically, feeling decidedly sick, no possibility of escape-- 

And then, to her astonishment, his weight was suddenly gone, hefted up and away from her -- and by William Holmes! 

“She said _no_ , idiot,” he snarled as he shoved Glen away, toward the door. 

But Glen was big and lithe, and though he staggered back, he didn’t fall, and, with his surprise quickly replaced by a look of sheer hatred, he sneered, “Well, if it isn’t the bloody _freak!_ ” and Molly gasped in horror as the bigger man launched himself at William. Yet, before she could scream, something happened, almost too quickly to take in. Holmes dodged and struck, not just once, but two or three times, with efficiency and an utterly effective economy of motion. It was astounding, like something from a Bond film, and just like that, Glen was laid out on the floor, groaning faintly, incapacitated. 

William sniffed, glaring down at his victim with distaste, a slight, not entirely pleasant smile playing on those beautiful lips. And then he looked up at Molly, who was still on the bed staring at him, the dregs of her fear now tinged with wonder. 

His smile disappeared. He stepped over the prone carcass on the floor, saying, “Let’s get you out of here.” 

He reached for her and those elegant fingers gripped her upper arm and summarily hefted her off the bed, too, rather more easily and quickly than had been the case with Glen. She got a glimpse of an odd light in William’s eyes, and realized he wasn’t entirely sober, either. But she had no chance to say anything, for he did not let her go, but on the contrary, pulled her along after him, though he did let his hand sllde down to grip her wrist, which looked a trifle less manhandley (and was that even a word?). 

Out the bedroom door, down the hall, down the stairs, across the wide foyer. The music was blasting loud as ever, or louder, the booming bass making her head throb, but even so Molly thought she heard Meena call to her as they approached the front doors that now stood open, letting in blessed fresh air and a glimpse of the star-strewn night sky. She started to turn in Meena’s direction, but William Holmes snapped some indecipherable admonition and tightened his grip, pulling her out the door, across the wide porch, down the three steps… 

“William, _wait!_ ” she finally half-shouted (the music wasn’t quite as deafening out in front of the house, but close). To her surprise he did stop, and he turned to her. 

“What? Do you want to go back in?” 

She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. And then said, “No. Of course not.” 

“Didn’t think so,” he said, mildly, and started off again. 

“Wh-where are we going?” Molly managed to ask between great gulps of cool night air. 

“I need a smoke. We’ll go down by the river. And then _you’re_ going home.” 

And she laughed. For the joy of being away from that horrid party and the horrid Glen, and all through the agency of the most beautiful man she knew. 

He glanced at her, and his stormy brow cleared. He slowed his pace. His grip on her wrist loosened, then released. He said to her (or _drawled_ , really), “Speaking of idiots, what possessed you? You did everything wrong tonight. I won’t be there next time, you know.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” she said with conviction. 

He gave a chuff of laughter, but nodded. “Good.” 

After that, they walked along side by side in silence. But it was a comfortable one.

 

*

 

He lit a cigarette, offered it to her (she accepted), then lit another for himself before flopping down on the grass under the warm night sky. She sat down cross-legged beside him, the better to see him. His eyes were unfocused, looking up at the stars. The river murmured it’s quiet music. It was a perfect May evening -- now. 

“You’re leaving soon?” she finally asked, after a few minutes. 

“Mmm. Next week.” 

“What are you going to do?” She couldn’t imagine him settling into any ordinary job. 

“Dunno. My brother has a couple of things for me, and then… who knows?” 

“Does your brother own a business where you can use your degree?” 

He laughed. “Not exactly. Interesting work, though. I won’t be bored.” 

“Is that a problem for you?” 

“God yes!” He looked over at her. “It’s the very heart of the matter.” 

She frowned, wondering a little what he might mean. 

They smoked in silence for a couple more minutes, and then he sat up, stubbed out his cigarette, took hers (without asking) and did the same. Then he rose to his feet with that easy grace that always made her heart still and held out his hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

 

*

 

Ten years later, in her first month at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, Molly was processing a series of slides in the lab when her supervisor, Mike Stamford, came in, accompanied by two other men. She looked up with an enquiring smile as Mike spoke. 

“Dr. Molly Hooper, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of NSY, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. They’re investigating Mrs. Johnstone’s death. They’ve seen the report, but can you take them down and show them the body, and give them any other help they might need? Within reason, of course.” 

Mike turned a wry look on Sherlock Holmes, who merely raised a brow. 

Molly was standing now, a bit pale as Lestrade smiled at her and shook her hand. Sherlock Holmes also murmured a greeting, surveying her without much enthusiasm. 

There was absolutely no recognition in the piercing, pale eyes. 

She pulled herself together. “A consulting detective?” she managed to ask without either stammering or squeaking. 

But it was Lestrade who replied, in a teasing voice, “ _Only one in the world_ , as he’ll point out at the drop of a hat.” He grinned as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him, and added, “Seriously, though, he’s cracked some seemingly impossible cases for me.” 

 _Well, that must keep the level of boredom to a minimum,_ she thought. But she only said, “I’ll be happy to help you both in any way I can.” 

Lestrade nodded. “If you’ll lead the way, then, Dr. Hooper?” 

She did, feeling awkward, elated, and disappointed, all at once. But after all, why should he remember her? 

And since he brought up the rear as they headed down to the morgue, neither she, nor anyone else, saw the curve of those beautiful lips as Sherlock considered the person and the vast new potential of _Dr._ Molly Hooper.

 

~.~

 


End file.
